The Spaniard's Passion. Jane Porter
Laughter echoed once more from the ballroom. Sophie turned her head slightly, listening to the sounds of the party. She should be there. She should go. But she didn’t move. It was as if Alonso held her captive, an invisible chain tethering her to him.
But she hated the chain. Feared it, even. He would control her, hold her, bind her to him forever if she gave him the chance. And as seductive as it sounded, she couldn’t do it, couldn’t give in to it.
Sophie looked at him. She might as well have reached out and touched him. Hot, painful sensation shot through her, a ricochet of love and lust. He was still so big. His tuxedo did little to diminish his height or hide his brawny strength. Gladiator, Clive had once whispered to her, mocking Alonso’s size and strength. Spartacus, she added, giggling, feeling safe with Clive, so secure.
The room crackled with tension. Lon could be a savage. She knew the lengths he would go to—knew that when Clive was in danger only Lon would have the heart and guts to get him out. And she felt the wild, savage streak now. Heard it in the implacable edge in his voice. Saw it in the hard glint in his eyes.
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